


By Torment and by Grief

by Rhaella



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-19
Updated: 2013-07-19
Packaged: 2017-12-20 15:48:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/889049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhaella/pseuds/Rhaella
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Thangorodrim. Maglor has terrible news to share.</p>
            </blockquote>





	By Torment and by Grief

The hardest part, Makalaurë knows, is yet to come.  
  
He glances at Findekáno, who meets his eyes with an unreadable expression. The tension between the two has lessened somewhat in the past few days, but it is still an almost palpable presence. Makalaurë knows that his cousin has not fully forgiven him—has not forgiven any of them—for abandoning Maitimo to his fate, and this newest grievance between them has proved to be one of the hardest to untangle. Makalaurë does not even know where to begin.  
  
He shifts his attention to his brother instead, though Maitimo is no easier to look at than Findekáno is. He does not sleep peacefully—Makalaurë doubts that he will ever sleep peacefully again—though the rare moments when he is awake are almost more painful to bear. It has only been a mere handful of days since Findekáno brought him back to their camp beyond all hope. One miracle is more than the sons of Fëanáro could have looked for; Makalaurë knows better than to expect a second.  
  
He also knows that consciousness will be no mercy. Far from it.  
  
"Have you told him?" he finally asks Findekáno, though he can already guess the answer.  
  
"It didn’t seem appropriate."  
  
Findekáno speaks no words of accusation this time, but Makalaurë can hear them regardless. He’s said them to himself often enough in the years since his brother was first taken. _How could you let this happen? How could you let **any** of this happen?_  
  
He has no answer to that. He never has.

***  
  
The first time Maitimo asks, Makalaurë changes the subject as gracefully as possible. His brother is still too exhausted to notice, and for that he is almost grateful.  
  
Russandol has suffered enough (more than enough) as it is, and Makalaurë does not believe he is ready for more heartbreak just yet.

***  
  
"Have you told him?"  
  
This time it is Findekáno who asks, and Makalaurë who looks away in discomfort. He has tried to tell Maitimo more than once, but the words only tangle on his tongue. _And I would name myself the greatest singer amongst the Noldor._  
  
"Waiting will not make it any easier. For anyone."  
  
There is an edge to Findekáno’s voice, a barely concealed insinuation that Makalaurë has become all too familiar with. He clenches his teeth, biting back words he will regret, his eyes shifting instinctively towards those of his brothers who are present. Kurvo looks deceptively calm, but Tyelkormo springs to his feet before anyone can think to restrain him.  
  
"Watch your tongue, cousin. You may have been the one to rescue him, but you remain in this camp only with our leave." Trembling with something that is not quite rage, he storms out of the room, a tense silence settling in his wake. Makalaurë does not relish the thought of rebuking him later.  
  
After a moment, Findekáno continues on as if nothing had happened. “He needs to know, Káno. He has probably already guessed."  
  
"He has enough troubles as it is," Makalaurë replies, though they both know that it is a weak excuse. Maitimo has asked more than once now, and there are only so many times that his brothers can get away with changing the subject. Withholding the truth may no longer be a mercy at all—Maitimo is strong enough now that even another blow will not break him; not if all of the years on Thangorodrim could not.  
  
Makalaurë is left with the uncomfortable impression that it is himself he is trying to spare.

***  
  
They had hoped to be wed soon after the festival on Taniquetil, expecting—somewhat naïvely, perhaps—that his father’s exile would be lifted and the Ñoldor would finally be at peace again. Maitimo would not be married in Tirion if Fëanáro were forbidden to attend, and they both agreed that Formenos was no place for a royal wedding.  
  
When the world went dark, marriage was the last thing on anybody’s mind.  
  
He found her again in Tirion after the debate, after the Oath, slipping away from his father’s side long enough to set his own affairs in order. His mother would not join them, he knew, and his brothers’ wives had uniformly refused to come as well. Maitimo had almost expected to face similar arguments himself, but he found her instead helping her own kin to prepare for the journey ahead, conviction in her voice when she told him that there was nowhere he could go that she would not follow.  
  
They would be married once away from Aman, they decided, once the king was avenged and the Ñoldor fully established in their new realms. It would be a time for hope, for joy, for new beginnings, and what better way to celebrate such prospects than with a wedding?  
  
They had still expected that the Silmarils would be won back in a mere matter of months.

***  
  
"Where is she, brother? Where is Merissë, where is my—" But he cannot call her his wife, because they had never married.  
  
"She…" Makalaurë breaks off, remembering that terrible day years past when they had ridden from Formenos to tell their father the horrific news—the Silmarils stolen, their grandfather murdered. Maitimo had been the one to speak then, his composure all but shattered; Makalaurë wishes he could muster even that much presence of mind.  
  
"We should have protected her better. **_I_** should have protected her better," he admits, his normally quick tongue as heavy as lead. He is not certain that there even was anything more that could have been done, but he seldom had the time to try. Too many of the past few years had been consumed by his struggle with Atarinkë for control of their following.  
  
“When we first heard what had happened, we feared the worst. We thought— I am sorry, Maitimo, but we thought you were dead. We never imagined…"  
  
They had never imagined that cruelty of such a calibre could be possible, though he cannot bring himself to say that. Maitimo does not comment, and Makalaurë would consider that a blessing if his brother were not watching him with a frightening intensity.  
  
"We tried to keep her engaged, tried to keep her mind occupied, but after the first couple of years…"  
  
 _Slain ye may be, and slain ye shall be, by weapon and by torment and by grief._ The sons of Fëanáro seldom care to think about the Prophecy of the North, but its words are imprinted upon each of their minds regardless. Makalaurë cannot keep himself from remembering them now.  
  
“She never stopped loving you, Russandol, but the grief… we lost her almost five years ago."  
  
Maitimo says nothing for a long moment, and Makalaurë finds himself looking away. His brother’s eyes have become difficult to meet at the best of times; at present it is almost impossible.  
  
"So I have slain her as well," Maitimo finally says with the disturbing calmness of one who has long since learned to expect only the worst.  
  
Makalaurë tries to argue, tries to console him, but Maitimo can be as stubbornly uncompromising as any of them. He already knows that nothing he might say will make the slightest difference.

***  
  
There is never an official decree forbidding even the mention of Merissë.  
  
There doesn’t have to be.

**Author's Note:**

> "Maedros the eldest appears to have been unwedded, also the two youngest (twins, of whom one was by evil mischance burned with the ships)[…]"  
> The Peoples of Middle-earth, pg318
> 
> The wording of this line has always struck me as odd -- obviously either someone is or is not married, there shouldn't be any "appears" about it. This story is one possible (if rather morbid) explanation as to why there might be some ambiguity on the subject.


End file.
